


nodus tollens

by MagitekUnit05953234



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Gen, I still haven't played Comrades yeehaw, Implied/Referenced Suicide, MT Related Angst, OC is minimal and just to move plot along, Oops I broke Prompto again, Poor Prompto Argentum, Post-Episode Prompto, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Probably not Comrades compliant, Rating for Unfun Themes, So I'm tagging just in case, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, The line in question isn't actually talking about suicide but the wording sounds like it, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 03:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15810042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagitekUnit05953234/pseuds/MagitekUnit05953234
Summary: People will do anything to survive the next battle, and if salvaged imperial tech will deflect a killing blow from a daemon, they’ll gladly wear it no matter its origin.It’s a conscious decision. Prompto looks at the armor, and decides to put it on. Just once. Just to see.





	nodus tollens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NekoAisu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/gifts).



> Hey so I churned this out in few hours and it feels...pretty alright.  
> As always, no beta.  
> Credit for the MT salvaging idea goes to AO3 user NekoAisu. @Kiri I am sorry for like... doing nothing with the other parts of the idea and just making another generic angst fic hhfg.  
> Note on the title— It's from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows! Here's the definition:  
>  _n._ the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore—that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t understand, that don’t even seem to belong in the same genre—which requires you to go back and reread the chapters you had originally skimmed to get to the good parts, only to learn that all along you were supposed to choose your own adventure.

The first time Prompto sees it in the weapons shop, he has to leave. He takes one look, turns on his heel, and doesn’t come back for the rest of the day.

The second time, Prompto spends just a second too long staring from across the street, and the vendor starts _hawking it to him_.

“Hey there, Argentum! Looking for a new way to defend yourself from the night? We’ve got some new stuff in,” the vendor, Aeger, waves enthusiastically at the full set of magitek armor hanging on the wall next to the typical swords, guns, and accessories that are usually sold at this suddenly godforsaken shop. “Salvagers finally managed to figure out how to stop this stuff from dissolving! Pretty cool, right?”

Prompto, moved across the street by traitorous feet, stands eye to eye with the helmet. He suddenly feels cold— colder than Lestallum usually is these days, anyway. 757 isn’t a good year.

“Full disclosure, they’ve got something weird on the inside,” Aeger says, “but it’s harmless and don’t rub off so it’s no problem! Well worth the protection. Stops an imp’s claws no problem. Strong enough not to get bit through. The hunters who’ve been testing this stuff out say it’s nearly indestructible!”

The suit is empty, but Prompto almost feels as if there’s a presence in it. He knows it’s stupid but…

“—why not try it out? Strongest armor for this price you’ll find in all of Lestallum!”

“I’m good,” Prompto chokes out, stepping away from the shell on the weapons board. “”Thanks, though.”

The third time, Prompto is out in the field. He’s resting at a haven (praying to gods he never worshipped that the flickering lights won’t go out for good) waiting for some rando hunters to meet up with him for a group hunt.

When the first one walks up outfitted in a customized set of MT armor, Prompto suddenly remembers he has some _totally urgent_ business to attend to and holes up in his veritable closet of an apartment for a few days.

It’s not so much MTs themselves. Prompto can deal with those. He _has_ dealt with those. It’s people being _in_ the armor. It’s easy to forget the truth when MT’s dissolve into nothing once you shoot ‘em through the forehead. It’s less easy when you see a real, actual human traipsing around in the armor like they have a right to it.

Prompto wonders what would happen if he told everyone what MTs are. He knows that none of his friends ever told anyone. Something about it being Prompto’s story to tell. He wishes it weren’t that.

He wonders if people would stop wearing the armor, stop tearing it away from dissolving corpses, stop garnishing themselves in the cage Prompto escaped if they _knew_.

Prompto is pretty sure they wouldn’t. People will do anything to survive the next battle, and if salvaged imperial tech will deflect a killing blow from a daemon, they’ll gladly wear it no matter its origin. Probably even if it’s the shell of a living being twisted into a soldier by force. Something that Prompto is could have been.

By chance, Prompto ends up in possession of some armor. There was a lottery of sorts in a darker corner of Lestallum that Prompto frequents against his better judgement. People could trade ration tickets for raffle tickets, hoping to score some good gear. Prompto had his eye on a solid-looking revolver, a decent addition to his gradually degrading collection. Guns aren’t the easiest to maintain once there’s no more gun oil or solvent or anything being manufactured. It’s either replace ‘em before they fail, or be caught out in the dark with a broken gun and a severely shortened life expectancy. Today, Prompto’s hoping to score a sweet revolver before meeting up with Gladio to catch up. It’s been a few months.

Prompto didn’t get the gun. What he got was a big _fuck you_ from the universe in the form of an entire goddamn metal suit of armor that he didn’t even want to look at.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Bratus, some jerkass Prompto had the unfortunate pleasure of hunting with once or twice, casts a dark look at Prompto. “You got the best fuckin’ thing here.”

“Sure,” Prompto stuffs what he can of the armor into his bag. “Don’t really know if I’m gonna use it, though.”

“Why not?” Bratus scoffs. “I’d gladly take it off your hands if it’s that much of a damn problem for you.”

“Ah you know,” Prompto grins, the familiar geometry of feigned amusement grafting itself over his face without a hint of effort. His words come across a little less jokingly than he’d like, though. “I’m pretty good as I am. Disposable enough anyway. It’d be a waste on me.”

“If you really think so, maybe I _should_ have it,” Bratas rounds on Prompto, eyeing the pieces that Prompto couldn’t fit into his bag.

“No!” Prompto picks up the backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and gathers up the extra bits. “Don’t. I’ve got it.”

“If you say so,” Bratus steps off, back toward his group of jerkass friends. “Selfish prick.”

Prompto walks back to his apartment. He doesn’t think about the helmet dangling from his left hand, or the gauntlets tucked under his arm.

In the privacy of his apartment, Prompto lays out the pieces on his mattress. It’s a ratty thing, stained and sat directly on the floor. It takes up most of the space in the apartment. It’s one of the only basic comforts in this damn place and it’s not exactly a good one.

Prompto turns on the flashlight on his phone and picks up the gorget, inspecting the inside. There _is_ something in there, dark and splotchy against the metal. It’s rough, when he runs a finger across it. It doesn’t seem to want to come off, unyielding beneath a scratching onslaught from his fingernails.

The surface of the armor is almost warm, somehow. Perhaps from Prompto’s leeched body heat. Probably not, though. Not when it’s spread through the whole structure.

It’s a conscious decision. Prompto looks at the armor, and decides to put it on. Just once. Just to see.

There are all sorts of straps welded to the interior of the armor pieces to accommodate a human body fitting securely inside. They’re relatively simple to figure out, but there’s a lot of them. It takes Prompto a long time to get it all on.

When Prompto stands in his matchbox apartment in the middle of the apocalypse, dressed in magitek armor with a helmet in his hands, he feels oddly empty. He thinks he should probably be stressed or at least a little unsettled, but it’s almost as if it’s just another Tuesday Prompto’s not sure if it’s Tuesday but the meaning of time is essentially null at this point. The armor’s not nearly as heavy as Prompto expected. Honestly, _he_ doesn’t feel as heavy as expected. He feels like he’s been filled with helium, ready to phase through the roof of the apartment building and float into the miasma above.

The helmet blocks off an uncomfortable amount of Prompto’s peripheral vision. There’s a dent on the left side, something that wasn’t quite hammered out but was apparently deemed okay enough to raffle off anyway. It digs into his temple, but he doesn’t really feel it.

Someone knocks on Prompto’s door. He turns and squints at it through the suffocating faceplate. Suffocating. When did it start feeling like that? When did it start feeling like anything?

Prompto turns the doorknob with a little difficulty, the gauntlets encasing his hands making it hard to get a decent grip.

“The fuck?” Gladio, because _of course_ Prompto forgot Gladio was going to come over this evening morning afternoon, reels back from the doorway, his sword dropping into his hand with a burst of crystalline light.

Prompto raises a hand in a weak wave. The metal creaks with the movement. “Hey.”

“Prompto?” The sword vanished again, and Gladio’s hands are suddenly hovering above the pauldrons of Prompto’s new shell, as if he wants to grab Prompto’s shoulders but is afraid to touch. “What the _hell_ are you doing in one of those?”

“I won it,” Prompto is suddenly being led over to his bed, Gladio seeming to have screwed up the nerve to touch an MT. “It was fate.”  
  
Yes, fate. That sounded right. Prompto was always meant to be in one of these things sooner or later. It’s just… later. A lot later than it should’ve happened. This is only proper.

Prompto blinks. The faceplate’s been removed and Gladio is currently trying to navigate the clasps on the bottom of the helm. The world seems a lot more in-focus now that Prompto’s not looking at it from behind that mask.

“Why the hell would you _get_ one of these?” Gladio pulls off the helmet and tosses it to the ground, wiping his hands on his pants as if he’s touched something dirty. “What were you thinking?”

Prompto looks at the discarded helmet, then at his hands. He’s cold again. When he closes his eyes, he can feel snow against his skin. He can see Noct approaching him, sword plucked from the air. He can see himself, leveling a gun at his own forehead. His finger begins to depress the trigger.

Someone is touching his face. Prompto startles, meeting Gladio’s eyes. “What?”

“Did you hear anything thing I just said?” Gladio asks.

“Yes,” Prompto blurts out. He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, taking in Gladio’s raised eyebrow. “No.”

“Okay,” Gladio breathes out hard through his nose. “Let’s get you out of that shit, alright? Then we’ll talk.”  
  
“Talk?” Prompto echoes. “About what?”

“You’re standing alone in your apartment wearing imperial bullshit and blue screening every three seconds,” Gladio grabs Prompto’s right hand and unclasps the gauntlet from the vambrace, sliding it off with little resistance. Prompto’s bracelets are pushed up too high on his arm, revealing his barcode. “This is the last thing you should be doing these days.”

Prompto feels sick.

“Okay,” Prompto wills down the nausea and works on getting the rest of the armor off. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Gladio stills for a moment. “Just don’t do it again. I’m taking this shit with me when I leave.”

Prompto agrees readily.

Once the armor is hidden away and Prompto has spent more company with a friend than he has since the new year, he feels a little more human.

He isn’t one, he knows.

But it’s nice to pretend.

The fifth time Prompto sees a set of MT armor, he sends a cordial nod to the wearer and continues on his business. It’s nothing to him. It’s normal. People will do whatever it takes to live through hell. It’s just another way to survive.

Prompto never wears any imperial tech again. He doesn’t need to. Other people need the protection more. Besides, he knows what he is well enough without it.

He tightens the band around his wrist and waits for dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter [@compromisedunit](https://mobile.twitter.com/compromisedunit)!


End file.
